Welcome to Paradise
by EtchedInDiamond
Summary: MULTI-CROSSOVER. There's more than one extraordinary thing waiting for Michael in Paradise Falls Gas & Grub. Four, to be exact. And if the hosts of Heaven want Charlie's unborn son dead, they're going to have to get past a few pissed off super-powered individuals to do it. *AN: Four popular YA Fiction fandoms involved. Will be revealed as story goes on.
1. Prologue: Convergence

***Author's Note: **First off, feel free to complain about my sporadic story writing. In my defense, I don't abandon any of my stories (excluding one or two); they just take a minor backseat to others subject to inspiration. So, yeah.

**Story Info: **This one's been plaguing me ever since I saw Legion (okay R-rated film for you guys who haven't watched it, but I wouldn't recommend it for overly sensitive people). Just the thought of different people on different tracks of life converging in a diner and eventually deciding mankind's fate sent story ideas running through my head like Thing One and Thing Two.

Basically, it involves four very popular figures in YA Fiction meeting in Paradise Falls, along with the other pivotal characters in the film. Not necessarily a "what-if" than it is a "how-would", if you understand that horribly structured comparison. It's pretty AU, but that part goes with almost every crossover fan fiction. I put it on the Legion category because there's just too much fandoms involved, and I didn't want to do the X-over's category because that doesn't give me much exposure (selfish of me, I know).

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own anything but the words.

* * *

It was mercilessly hot. The sand was gritty and coarse beneath the tattered remains of his shoes. The added weight of the old Arsenal backpack did nothing to lessen his discomfort, but then again…it was never about comfort.

A sudden gust of wind blew particles of sand into his face. He wiped the grains off his cheeks, the movement causing his unkempt blonde hair to momentarily escape the confines of his hat. He pushed the greasy fringe back under the cap. It had been a few months since he'd seen a good barber, much less anyone of a respectable occupation. The backtracks of America were dirty and rough, but there was no denying the amount of space it held. Space where almost anyone could effectively hide themselves from prying eyes.

He was so lost in a particular reverie concerning happier days that he almost didn't see the large, faded sign until he was inches away from crashing into it. The man stopped himself, pressing a grime-stained hand against its dusty exterior.

_Welcome to Paradise Falls!_

He took a quick glance to his left. There was an old building, a group of trailers resting forlornly behind it. A darkened neon sign rested atop its slanted roof. "Paradise Falls Gas 'N' Grub", it read. Abandoned oil stations were in front of the dingy establishment, not having seen use for ages. The whole place screamed "screwed from the get-go", and the man had to stifle his disappointment. If this was paradise, he sure as hell didn't want to know what Hell was like.

But considering his circumstances, the run-down truck stop was his only option for the time being.

_What's the rush, Alex? You've got somewhere to go?_

A wry smile.

_No. I have nowhere to go._

With that depressing thought, he walked towards the building.

**/*ooOOoo*\**

The sky was usually a good place to be, but under the relentless heat of the Mojave sun, there were better venues.

Another man found himself traveling through this grim landscape, bearing reasons not unlike the first traveler beside the pavement below. He blinked away sweat from his eyes and wiped his forehead, steadying his broomstick with the other hand. The lack of a satisfying breeze sapped his normal enjoyment of a flight, but it was too late to complain. It was indeed torture to fly so close to the burning sun in an infernal desert, but it was even more torture to know the object that could end his suffering lay within his pants pocket. He was tempted to pull the damn thing out and conjure a bottle of cold, sparkling water, but he fought down the tantalizing thought.

_Not again. Never again._

He began to wonder how long it would take until exhaustion overtook him and he became buzzard brunch when a small speck in the expanse of dull brown caught his eye. Squinting, he risked a loss in altitude to sneak a peek. There was an unexpected light breeze, as if nature had awarded him for the action.

It was an old diner, by the looks of it, resting beside a two-lane road. A small trailer park lay not too far off, a rickety playground centered in the midst of it. A gas station sat unused in front of the rectangular edifice, where a lone figure was passing by. Thoughts of a hot lunch and cold water (even butterbeer, God-willing) seeped into his mind. A short but violent battle waged inside of him, but the prospect of food and rest eventually won out.

_What the hell, Harry,_ he thought glumly as he prepared to land. _You never know. They _could _have butterbeer._

He snorted.

_Yeah, and your best friend's as smart as his wife._

**/*ooOOoo*\**

As the ancient Camry suffered yet another pothole, the young man in the driver's seat began to hate his life for the thousandth time that day.

He muttered a few archaic curses under his breath, his eyes fixed upon the plain and boring road ahead of him. True enough, he had had better days, but none quite like this. Being stuck with this pathetic excuse for an automobile was one thing, but having to drag a bloody, half-dead body while running from ravenous monster nut heads was something else altogether. An old memory of his girlfriend teasing him strayed into remembrance.

Well. _Ex_-girlfriend.

His momentary happiness squashed, he turned his attention back to the situation at hand. The gas symbol was flashing sporadically, telling him he needed a quick fill-up before they stopped dead on the road. Considering civilization was nowhere to be seen, his hopes for a gas station were thoroughly stomped by a Typhon-sized foot. The young man beat his palms against the steering wheel in frustration, growling like a beast.

A dark shape blinked into existence in the horizon, and he had to calm himself lest he suffer a heart attack from the surge of expectation in his chest. He pressed down on the pedal, urging the beat-up old car faster. The place was a some sort of roadside diner, obviously having seen better days. Or none at all.

There was a gas station in front of it.

He fist-pumped, letting go of the wheel for a moment. The car swerved dangerously to the right, and he steered it back into place, swearing in ancient Greek.

A groan sounded from behind him.

He drove faster as he remembered the passenger in the back seat, and the incredibly dire state she was in. He looked at the rearview mirror, assessing her condition. She was rested, but if he didn't find medical attention fast, all sorts of things could go wrong.

Still, he had to wonder how the girl got those deep wounds, like several claws had ripped into her short but lithe frame.

And he also had to wonder how the Hades she had wings.

**/*ooOOoo\**

Monsters plagued her dreams.

She had spent her whole life avoiding them, the truly bestial ones and even the ones that lurked inside lab coats, but not even in her sleep could she escape their putrid taint. Memories of happy times flashed in and out of her nightmare, so damn close but far enough to slip by her reaching fingers. A brother and sister, small but exceedingly remarkable. A proud black girl with a taste for fashion and a strong sense of family. A tall boy, blind but could see in ways no one could. And lastly a dark-haired figure who played a part in her nightmares just as much as he did in her lighter thoughts.

Sudden movement disrupted her dream-state, and she began to remember. She remembered getting separated from the only family she ever knew. Getting chased and mauled by the winged monsters. And finally getting saved by someone she didn't know, but whose sea-green eyes haunted her every second.

Another sudden movement and she began to wake up. A groan escaped her lips, and she opened her eyes. It took a while to remember the dirty back seat of the Camry, and even longer to remember the way it was stolen. She heard vague muttering from the driver's seat, and those green eyes flashed in her mind.

The car stopped, and she weakly rose and looked out the window.

It was nothing special, similar to a lot of the back country establishments her family had to ransack on the run. An old restaurant and truck stop, probably. Something so forgettable and old Gazzy would've loved to blow it up just for the heck of it. She laid back down again, the pain throbbing in her head.

This day was getting better already.

**/*ooOOoo*\**

Michael slowly lowered the gun, eying the corpse of the possessed officer with an odd mixture of regret and disgust. It had been a despicable hybrid, two of His creations that were never supposed to be joined, but joined nonetheless. He picked up the bags of weapons, dismissing the heavy thoughts. The root of it all was why he had disobeyed the decree, why he was standing in this dark Babylon in the first place.

Michael loaded the bags into the squad car, closing the trunk and settling into the driver's seat. He twisted the key into the ignition, smiling drily as the vehicle rumbled to life. Human transportation was so simple to operate.

As he drove down the city lane, hearing humanity crumble around him, the (for all intents and purposes) fallen angel couldn't shake the feeling that so suddenly gripped him. The feeling that the child wasn't the only extraordinary thing he was going to find on the course laid out before him.

If he didn't know now, he was about to find out.

* * *

**Author's Note:** It's not that hard to figure out which characters are involved if you read a lot of popular YA novels. Further information regarding tie-ins will be discussed in later chapters.

Please leave a review on your way out and feel free to PM me if you have any questions, compliments, complaints, etc. I don't like flames, so don't start a fire. Will be updated shortly (that being a relative term).

_**FOREVER REMAIN ETCHED IN DIAMOND**_


	2. Hunger

**AN: Benigno Numine is still in progress. Here's chapter 2.**

* * *

"_COME, YE CHILDREN, LISTEN TO ME. I WILL TEACH YOU THE FEAR OF THE LORD."_

_Psalm 34:11_

The horsefly landed delicately on the sheer white surface.

It felt around with its hairy, segmented legs. The material below it was caked with grease, dried dishwater, and the stains of forgotten drinks. The fly stopped at a particular spot, dripping saliva on the lemonade puddle it had discovered. Satisfied, the proboscis slid from its mouth, and it began to feed.

Bob Hanson, who had been watching the insect since he spied it zoom in from the window sill, lifted the blue flyswatter and brought it down with a smack.

"You'd think that there's wouldn't be any flies out here in the middle of nowhere," he remarked, grimacing at the smashed remains of the house-fly.

"It's my cooking," Percy, the old black cook, replied from the kitchen. "Nothing can resist it."

"True," Bob grunted, wiping the mess of his prized swatter. "Too bad the majority of humanity has never heard of old Paradise Falls."

The apparent unpopularity of their humble establishment had long since ceased to be a downer. Percy chuckled as he flipped the pancake expertly on the skillet. "True that, brother."

The diner had not yet opened, but already they were hard at work. The curtains were half-drawn, the tables wiped clean, and the floor mopped all before 7:00. Customers aside, Paradise Falls still had a reputation to uphold, a reputation Bob had envisioned ever since his dad took him to the local diners back in Nevada every Sunday morning when nearly the whole town was at church. Although his dream didn't quite turn out the way he wanted it, Paradise Falls was still his pride and joy.

"Where the hell is Charlie?" Bob grunted, peering through the blinds. "She was supposed to be here half past six."

"Probably held up by Jeep," Percy remarked. "Your boy adores her."

Bob just sighed and went back to the kitchen. The pregnant waitress could wait. Right now, he had a diner to prepare.

The door chimed, and a bedraggled looking man walked into the store. _God save me from these hobos_, Bob thought irritably. "Sorry," he announced, setting himself on a stool and fidgeting with the TV. "Store isn't open yet. Gotta wait until 8:00."

The man processed this. Bob was beginning to think he was deaf or dumb when he nodded and sat down by a table. Brown eyes flitted around, scanning the diner. The stranger didn't have a dumb feeling to him at all, Bob figured.

"So," Percy said, flipping another pancake. "Where're you from?"

**ooOOoo**

Alex's mouth watered as the black man prepared the pancake. His stomach growled eagerly. He'd gone three whole days without a proper meal, and his knees threatened to give out when he first walked into the decrepit diner. Fighting down his hunger, he flicked through the mental catalogue of cover stories in his head. "LA," he replied in a flawless American accent. "I got tired of the place so I took a bus over to San Bernardino County. Hitchhiked east until a jerk dropped me off not too far from here."

Bob nodded absently, whacking at the TV. "Huh. Tough luck."

"Yeah."

Bob sneaked a glance at the disheveled stranger. He carried the same lost air that everyone else had when stopping at Paradise Falls. The fact that the Mojave Desert was a damn easy place to get lost in was probably the only reason they had business. There was something else, though. The young man (maybe in his mid-20's) had these dead brown eyes, eyes that had seen too much for one so young. It wasn't the first time Bob had seen those eyes on a man.

He looked over to Percy, who was staring intently at the bum. His chipped and dented dog tags were clacking noisily as he readied the breakfast. When the old cook had gotten back from Vietnam with a hook for a hand and an ice cube for a heart, his usually warm eyes seemed lifeless and cold. Of course, ten years down the line the warmth returned, but seeing it on another person was all too unnerving. Bob had to wonder what was going on in Percy's head right now. God knows how many men with PTSD Percy had overseen during his tour.

"You seen action, kid?" Percy finally asked.

The pancake flipped.

"…No."

"Huh."

It was a lie. Alex had probably completed more missions for MI6 then the number of skeletons in Sir Alan Blunt's closet. He didn't know how many times he had come within in an inch from dying, or at least getting severely wounded. The memory of machine gun fire on a moon-lit pier sent involuntary shudders down his spine, and he pushed the dark thoughts away.

Bob cried out as the TV zapped on. "What'd I tell you, Percy? Good as new!" Pleased with his accomplishment, his black eyes flitted up to the dusty clock on the far wall. "Well, it's eight now, and Charlie's swelling belly is nowhere to be seen. What's it gonna be, Mr.…?"

"Walker." It was a clever spin off his original name, but normal enough not to be suspected.

"Mr. Walker."

"What've you got?"

Before anyone could answer, the doorbell chimed. A middle-aged man in a casual suit stormed in, anger literally pouring off of him in waves. His wing-tipped leather shoes clacked on the tiled floor. He had the air of a man who bought plasma screen TV's for the heck of it and was used to getting what he wanted. His soft face was already covered by a thin sheen of sweat. "Hi," he barked bluntly. "Our truck broke down and we need to get Scottsdale. You got a mechanic here or something?"

He discreetly scanned the diner, eying Alex with distaste. The young man leaned back approvingly. The more people disregarded him the better.

Bob arched a thin eyebrow at the blatant demand and got off his stool. "Yeah. My boy fancies himself as a mechanic. You got a time limit or something?"

"Preferably by Christmas. Which is, you know, five seconds away."

Bob ignored the immature remark, sighing and heading for the door. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you. How much should I pay you?"

The rest of their conversation faded as they exited the diner. Percy watched the two leave with a curious gaze. When they were gone, he turned his attention to Alex. "You were saying?"

"A pancake is fine."

"Pancake it is, then."

Percy had already finished, so he went round the counter and approached Alex. The cook gave him a fork, some syrup, and set the meal down on a freshly washed plate and handed it to the younger man. His eyes widened, and he licked his lips.

"That'll be $3.50," the veteran told him.

Alex froze. _Bollocks_. He pretended to fish through his pockets to buy some time. All the while he was mentally berating himself for forgetting the fact that he was broke. A hearty laugh nearly sent him jumping right out of his skin.

"Nah, man, we serve free to the homeless. No need to pay."

Alex sagged in relief. _Thank God_. "That's kind of you."

Percy shrugged and returned to the kitchen. "Bob made it clear that we serve food free to people without homes. Seeing a hopeless man's face after getting served a free meal makes even this," he waved his hook, "worth it."

Alex couldn't complain. He calmly drizzled the pancake with the maple syrup, his hand trembling from hunger. He didn't want to eat too fast, so he took his time. Alex slowly divided the meal into fourths, lifted a piece to his mouth with the fork, and bit down.

Heaven. Absolute _heaven_. His taste buds did a jig around his mouth as he closed his eyes and chewed. It was hot and sweet, the fluffy texture of the pancake melted in his mouth almost immediately. He was sure a stale piece of bread would've tasted like ambrosia at this stage, but he was grateful nonetheless. Alex smiled and continued to eat the meal slowly, making every bite glorious.

_Yup. It's paradise, all right._

**ooOOoo**

The ground rushed forward, a light tan blur.

_Here it comes._

There was a whoosh, and Harry's legs stung from the sudden impact.

"Merlin's beard," he hissed, steadying his feet and halting the momentum of the Firebolt. It had been a while since his last Quidditch game, and ever since his school days he hadn't managed to quite nail the landing. The wizard grumbled and rubbed his sore behind. "This place better be worth it."

He had descended behind a stationary trailer, hopefully hidden from prying eyes. A rickety playground was erected beside it, the swing set rusty and old. There probably weren't any kids around to enjoy it. It looked considerably less depressing from a few hundred feet up in the sky. He walked around the sad scene, withdrawing his moleskin pouch from his messenger bag. Harry quickly stashed the broom inside of it. The enchanted bag had proved to be a godsend when bypassing Muggle security at the direst of times. Their fancy electronic gadgets apparently couldn't detect the contents of the pouch. In fact, most of the time they just shorted out.

The smell of a hot meal wafted from the diner. Harry's stomach rumbled. He quickened his pace, eager to fill his belly. As he rounded the side of the restaurant, the acrid smell of tobacco and smoke entered his nostrils. He pulled a face and pinpointed on the source of the smell.

She was strikingly beautiful, naturally so, but whatever joy she procured from that hereditary gift was long gone. Her face was cold and hard, what could've been smooth and alight with happiness covered by an exterior that was as brittle and coarse as the Mojave sand. Harry had to wonder what caused this young woman to bear such clear pain.

He then noticed the growing belly encased in a worn waitress' uniform.

Harry's opinion of the girl steadily decreased as he watched her smoke another drag from the lit cigarette.

"Woman," he began, slightly incensed. He knew it wasn't any of his business, but he didn't give a damn. "I don't know you, but what you're doing isn't going to help the child."

She fixed him a slow look with her calm, dark blue eyes. A look that seemed to take an eternity as Harry impatiently awaited her response. He didn't have anything against smokers. He paid no mind when some of the other senior Aurors smoked during operations. It took their minds off of the darker things one usually encounters when fighting against the horrors of Dark magic. The sheer irresponsibility of this young mother, however, struck something in him that sent waves of barely restrained anger coursing through his veins. A mother shouldn't risk anything when pregnant. A mother should do all she can to care for her unborn child. Because you never know when that child can be taken from you.

It was as easy as pointing a wand and saying two simple words.

"Huh," she drawled. The girl pointedly put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. "Maybe I should think about quitting, then."

Harry quivered for a moment, but stood rooted to the spot. His hastily erected neutrality was threatening to capsize, and it took all of his will not to blast her where she leaned against the telephone stand. _It's easy, Harry old chap. A simple _Reducto_ would do it. After all's well and done, you can clean up the mess, buy your food, and leave. No one will be the wiser. _His left pocket burned with an unnatural fire.

Harry's hand slowly inched towards his pocket of its own accord. The girl eyed the movement curiously, and she exhaled. The smoke reached Harry, and memories flooded into his mind.

_Fire. Wood was burning. People were screaming and howling like demons as the conflagration enveloped them in its incinerating embrace. The wand was the only thing he saw, though. The wand and the inferno jetting from its tip._

_ His throat was aching; the heat was that intense. It was only later did he realize that it wasn't the fire that scalded his throat, but the manic laughter that ripped through him like some tangible thing. The world was burning, and he couldn't be happier._

_ Somewhere, a woman screamed in the backdrop of a green light._

Harry opened his eyes. The woman was still staring at him with a faint curiosity, unaware of his struggle. The shaking had stopped, and all that remained was a steady calm. No. He wouldn't harm her.

But he really, really, _really _didn't like her.

Harry briskly walked past her, feeling her gaze rake across his body. He opened the door to the diner and was immediately greeted with the smell of bacon and eggs. He almost fell to his knees at the delicious aroma. The diner was a cute little thing, all evened out nicely and bearing a Sharpie-written menu to boot. Still, he was surprised the place was still standing. A bedraggled-looking man in ratty clothing sat hunched over a half-finished pancake, eating painstakingly slowly. _Bum, no doubt. _A TV sang Sinatra near the counter, and a grizzled-looking black man in a greasy apron looked up from where he was cooking. "Come on in, fella! Welcome to Paradise Falls."

Harry only nodded in response, staring dumbly at the sizzling bacon in the frying pan. His stomach roared again. Surrendering to the will of his appetite, he quickly approached the counter, scanning the menu.

"Hello," he began politely. He noticed the homeless man stiffen in his seat. "I'll have the Bacon & Egg Deluxe Combo, please."

The cook's eyebrows met the ceiling at the sound of his voice. "My, my, my. I haven't talked with someone from across the pond since my battalion stopped at London during our tour. I'm Eliot Percy."

"Harry." They shook hands.

"What brings you to little old Paradise Falls, Harry?" He took the wad of bills from the wizard and put them in the cash register, handing his new customer some coins in return.

"I travel sometimes. I haven't been this far west in America, so I decided to check it out."

Percy chuckled as he arranged the meal. "Not what you expected, I take it."

Harry shrugged. He was watching the cook's every move like a hawk. Each time the bacon sizzled his mouth watered. "It's fine. I'm not going to complain at the moment."

He heard a chair scrape against tiles, and the hurried pace of someone walking for the door.

**ooOOoo**

Percy opened the door and peered over the hood of the abused Camry. The dull-looking diner looked desolate, but judging by the scrumptious odor, there were people around. And, if the population didn't consist of a lone cook living out in the middle of the desert, someone could help him operate the gas station. There was already a truck resting in a mechanic's shed, and said mechanic's legs were jutting out from under the vehicle almost comically. Percy did a little dance of celebration, kind of like Tyson after a caffeine binge.

"Wait here!" he told his passenger.

The side door flew open, and strong hands suddenly gripped Percy's collar. The next thing he knew, he was on his back, simmering brown eyes boring into his. "Who are you?" the girl hissed.

He was shocked she could move that fast. Only a few hours ago she was bleeding profusely from numerous grisly wounds. She had moved so quickly not even _he_ could track it. _Demigod?_ He pushed the random thought away. No demigod he had ever met had freaking _wings_.

"Whoa, there, Xena," he said, tone placating. He was beginning to get slightly uncomfortable with her on top of him. His head wasn't the only place blood was starting to rush to. "Maybe if you get off of me I can explain things."

The girl processed this. She grunted and got off of him. Percy stood and smoothed down his clothes, shaking his head mockingly. "And to think I saved your butt back there."

The fury that burned in her eyes almost made him take a step back. It was Annabeth Chase all over again. "It was a joke. Sorry."

She crossed her arms and looked away, jaw set. It was a nice jaw, not too hard and masculine, but smooth. The girl was quite attractive, despite the fact that she was considerably hump-backed.

Percy rubbed his eyes. No. She wasn't hump-backed. It was her wings. They were tucked into the inside of her jacket, giving her the appearance of being hunched over. She noticed his gaze and did this shoulder-motion, and immediately her back straightened.

"Neat trick."

She gave him another look and stormed off. Percy watched her as she left.

_Huh. Maybe saving her butt wasn't such a bad thing. It's nicely formed and all, and the way the claw tears really accentuate the-_

He closed his eyes. Sometimes being tired did things to his brain. He waited until his libido simmered away, and then quickly caught up to her. "Hey," he called. "Hey! At least tell me your name."

She stared straight ahead and went for the door. Percy deftly blocked her path, arms spread wide. "You at least owe me that, sweetheart."

She glowered. He grinned.

"Max," the girl replied, forcing it through her teeth.

"Max…?"

"Max That's-all-you-need-to-know. Now get out of my way."

_Sheesh._

_ What's a guy got to do to get some appreciation these days?_

**ooOOoo**

The smell of freshly cooked breakfast sent shivers from the tips of Max's wings to her toes. A man in grimy clothing walked past her, their brown eyes meeting momentarily then veering off. The stranger exited the diner, where Percy pulled a face at his sour odor. She slowly walked in, looking around the room for any suspicious individuals. Individuals that were over seven feet and had canine fangs jutting out from their lips. Fortunately, there weren't any Erasers around, so she could relax and enjoy the peace.

A moment later, her savior walked in, all big smiles and relaxed swagger.

Well. _Relatively_ peaceful.

"Sit down," Percy ordered. "I'll go get us some food and ask about the gas."

She arched an eyebrow at the command, but quietly slid onto her seat. Percy walked up to the counter, where an old cook and another man in a worn jacket were conversing. He gave his best smile. "Hi. My girlfriend and I were heading east when our car broke down. Anyone know how to operate the gas station?"

The man in the tan jacket shook his head sadly. "Sorry, kid. Things haven't been working since '08. We got cut off from the supply."

Percy's heart sank. _Great. That's just great. Now how the Hades am I going to get home?_ He attempted a smile and waved his hand. "No problem. Guess we're going to have to stay here for the time being."

"Stuff like that happens more than you think. Don't worry. We got some space in the trailer out back where you and your girl can crash."

"Thanks."

"I'm Bob," he grunted, shaking Percy's hand firmly. "Strong grip. I like that. You could teach my son a thing or two. Your name?"

"Percy. Percy Jackson."

There was a clanging noise as the cook in the back dropped a spatula. "Well I'll be. Never thought I'd meet another Percy since my old man croaked." He threw the younger man an affable grin. "Eliot Percy. I go by Percy ever since my Army days."

Percy smiled. "Percy Jackson. I think I'll start calling you Eliot, if that's fine with you."

"Hm. I could use a change of pace. Eliot it is, then."

Percy ordered a meal and began to chat with the cook. Max lowered into her seat, feeling awkwardly out of place. Usually her flock would be by her side whenever they went out to eat, sans theft and demolition. Max felt empty and cold, like something vital inside of her had been torn out.

_Alright, Max. Think. Where the hell could your family be?_

It was early morning when they were ambushed. Angel was tired, and Gazzy and Total wouldn't quit yelling in Max's ear, asking her to stop. They reluctantly, and much to Fang's chagrin, stopped at a mountain ridge overlooking a small desert town. Her dark-haired friend (or was it more than that?) didn't sleep the whole night, and that in turn bothered Max into insomnia. The brooding, handsome face staring out into the setting sun was pure torture. That face confused her. And she didn't like it when she wasn't sure. It was times like these she wished that she was blind like Iggy.

At first light, they set out.

But the Erasers had already caught their scent.

They were the flying types; brutishly strong but ungainly on those gigantic wings. Normally the flock would zip around those blockheads like it was nothing, but the lupine Erasers had the element of surprise and outnumbered them ten to one. Jeb hadn't been pulling any punches this time.

_Speaking of punches,_ Max grumbled in her head, rubbing a particularly sore spot on her ribs. The Eraser that dealt the blow was twice the size of Ari, and three times as vicious. It was the punch that sent her careening into the sand by the quiet town, separated from her family. The Erasers immediately stopped what they were doing and rushed for the downed Max.

At that moment, she knew exactly what to do.

Nudge was screaming, Iggy was terrified and confused, Gazzy was bawling, Total was howling furiously, and Fang was desperately trying to pull them all together. Angel had just stared at her with those creepily prophetic blue eyes. But Max had to ignore that. She had to ignore the pain in her chest that far outweighed the pain of those wicked nails tearing into her skin. She had to focus on saving them.

Max cried out, kicked away her attackers, and flew for her life, away from the only family she had ever known. And the Erasers doggedly followed.

She didn't know when the green-eyed youth appeared. She was too busy nursing her horrible wounds to notice. All Max remembered was slumping against a concrete wall, her blood everywhere. Then he had come running into the fray, whipping out a bronze sword and cutting a swathe through the shocked Erasers who were ready to send her to the School. Then she felt strong arms lift her and carry her away, and she blacked out.

Percy plopped down on the seat in front of Max, interrupting her reverie. "Can you believe this was only $4.99?" he said incredulously. Percy slid a plate of syrupy French toast towards her. "Must've gotten a discount for my name."

She eagerly tore into the breakfast. Percy arched an eyebrow. "Slow down, girl. It's not good for your stomach, and you're making a mess."

_I don't give a crap_. Max honestly couldn't care less if she was making a scene. She was freaking hungry and the French toast was _delicious_. Percy shrugged and calmly began to eat his pancake.

"So…" he said, savoring the meal in his mouth. "What's your story?"

She ignored him.

"Well, it was going to come up sooner or later." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "How'd you get the wings?"

She choked on her toast.

**ooOOoo**

_Danger. Danger. Danger._

_How could you be so stupid? _Alex hurried his pace, shoving past the young couple in the door and stepping into the Mojave sun.

_British. British. British._

He knew it was going to happen eventually, but here of all places? In the bloody Mojave desert? It sounded weird, but he could see Sir Alan Blunt's crafty hands in this. He probably had aerial surveillance on him now. Alex threw the finger up at the sky for good measure.

_MI6_.

There was no way another Englishman visited the diner coincidentally. No, coincidence his ass. They were finally here, after all those years of ducking behind every corner and looking over his shoulder wherever he went. No amount of hiding could've saved him from their all-seeing eye. A volcano of anger erupted inside of him, and he kicked a gas tank furiously. In the mechanic's shed, the side door to a truck opened, and a scantily clad girl barely over seventeen strode towards him, a languid smile on her pale, pretty face.

A stern arm reached out from inside the truck and pulled her back in.

Alex tore his gaze from the brief but revealing spectacle. _What the hell was that all about?_ He stopped by the road, reality crashing into him. _Better question. Where the hell am I going?_ He had nowhere else to go. It was why Alex stopped here in the first place. MI6 aside, Paradise Falls was his temporary home.

He clenched and unclenched his right fist, feeling utterly helpless. His thoughts strayed to the man who had walked into the diner only minutes before. He looked unassuming: a little short, cropped black hair, dark green eyes. An odd-shaped scar on his otherwise unblemished forehead. Unassuming, yes, but unassuming was MI6 material.

He had moved with a confident gait, even and precise, pointedly deliberate. One could tell a lot about a man by the way he walked. He exuded professionalism, despite the worn traveler's vest and jeans. The stranger kept his arms at his sides, relaxed but ready to fight at a moment's notice.

The man was definitely an agent, if not MI6 then temp. CIA. Good old Mrs. Jones had ordered a warrant for his detainment to all major intelligence agencies around the world. Alex Rider was their best, they knew that. But even the most nimble and smartest of fish couldn't escape a net once caught. The net was closing in around him ever since the police officers in Chicago kicked down his hotel door.

He was interrupted from his despair as blaring music caught his attention. A sleek black Escapade was roaring down the highway, a cloud of dust in its wake. Although he hated rap, and the driver of the vehicle was probably an unsavory sort, Alex couldn't feel more overjoyed. A car meant hitchhiking. And hitchhiking meant escape. He hurriedly stuck out his thumb, risking a quick glance at the door of the diner. No activity.

The car slowed to a stop. The driver's door opened.

The man was tall, dark-skinned, not quite bald but getting there. His expensive jacket pointed at a life of luxury, but Alex was pretty sure how he got his money. The driver regarded him with a skeptical glare. "You need a ride, homie?"

Alex managed a friendly smile. "If you can give one, then sure."

He stared at him for a few excruciating seconds. Alex half-expected to feel cold metal press against the back of his neck, and the harsh voice of Blunt finally telling him he was caught.

"Where you headed?"

Alex's grin faltered. "Anywhere but here."

"Fine," he replied. "Might need some company for the trip. Buddy of mine's a dumbass and can't get reliable directions. Hold on, I'm going to use the phone in the diner."

Alex was about to tell him where to shove the phone once he got it, but he wisely held his tongue. The guy had no idea about Alex's situation, and he had accepted to drive him without argument. Acting like a snotty brat wasn't going to help.

"Your name?"

The black man considered the question. "Kyle."

"Alex."

Fixing another smile on his face, Alex reluctantly followed Kyle into the diner, crossing his fingers and hoping he wouldn't get handcuffed and carried into a Humvee the moment he stepped in.

**ooOOoo**

_"Obey, Michael. That's all He's asking you to do."_

_ "No. He's asking much more than that."_

Michael directed the squad car off the I-40, pushing past the abandoned cars and screaming citizens. The industrialized world was in turmoil; even now people were turning on the streets. The fallen angel grimaced as he was forced to run over a turned businessman. The angel-possessed man in a sharp suit had sprinted towards him, limbs stretched to extreme proportions. The police car took the brute with a tremor, but Michael continued on.

It was sad to think that the mortals always believed the End of Days would come through the power of the earth, or even their own nuclear devices. A global fall-out, they had called it. But even the believers would not have expected the Hand of God to smite the world, as He did the days of Noah. Mankind were horrible stewards, and they had been given too many chances. The Father wanted to wipe the slate clean.

Michael winced as the wounds on his back exploded with pain. With every little move the twin scars on his shoulder blades bitterly testified against him. He gritted his teeth and drove on.

The traffic was beginning to thin as he drove farther and farther away from concentrated civilization. Many of the possessed humans stood by the side of the road, watching him pass by with dark eyes. They weren't going to stop him. Yet. His time would come, they seemed to say. You will reap what you have sown.

A dark flash swooped in from the sky and latched onto one of the possessed, a plump woman in a tight blue dress. The hybrid opened her mouth to scream, but there was a flash of bright claws and a gaping mouth, and she was still. More beasts dropped from the sky, terrorizing the angel-humans before they could react. Surprised, Michael stopped the vehicle and stepped out into the dry heat.

The monsters were big, easily dwarfing Michael's mortal visage. Dark-plumed wings stretched out on either side of their heavily muscled frames. Their faces were slightly lupine, leering eyes a bright yellow. They tore into the possessed with savage glee, howling like a pack of rabid dogs. Blood painted the asphalt and the desert sand. Michael waited for them to finish, hands at his side.

"I don't know what you are," he began, stepping over and opening the trunk of the squad car. "But those were my brothers once. I will not tolerate that."

One of the strange monsters stared at him, a gesture eerily mirrored by the rest of his group. Ten, in total. The lead winged monster tilted his head curiously and sniffed. "You're not like them," he growled. "You're different."

Michael nodded. "That I am."

"But you're still prey."

"That remains to be seen."

The beast grinned voraciously, bloody fangs jutting from his childish lips. He growled and launched himself towards Michael, black wings spread like some twisted imitation of an angel. Michael anticipated the move and brought the sub-machine gun to bear, opening fire on the leader. Shock gleamed in the monster's eyes for a split second. The bullets tore into him mid-flight, twisting him like a marionette. Michael released the trigger, and then the thing fell in a shower of blood and gore. He lay on the highway, unmoving.

The other beasts stared at their leader in shock. They began to howl, their bare torsos contorting as they prepared to charge the angel. Michael was ready. He promptly reloaded his magazine, took out another gun from the trunk, and charged before their feet even left the ground.

They were big and tough, but nowhere near as fast. He nimbly dodged their feral swipes, taking precise shots whenever he was clear and when they failed to track his movements. He didn't waste any ammo; the first shot was always the last sound they would ever hear. The last one roared and barreled towards him in a fit of rage. Michael dropped his guns and leapt into the air, grabbing the beast's monstrous head and twisting roughly.

There was a loud snap, and the monster fell.

"The loss of your wings hasn't diminished your fighting prowess."

Sudden fear clenched Michael's heart, and he whirled around, firing at the source of the voice. The bullets pinged off an invisible barrier, protecting its amused creator from any harm.

"Though it has made you jumpier, it seems."

He looked young. A male human in his early twenties, blonde and blue-eyed. The visitor wore a denim jacket over a white shirt and duck pants, lending him a casual and easy-going air that was so far from the truth. Michael knew who this "man" by the road was. He just didn't think they would meet while he still drew breath on this demesne.

"Uriel," he breathed.

The handsome visage of the angel smiled and nodded. "You do well to recognize me."

"That form cannot hide your true aura. That is also your favored form when speaking with the Warden."

Uriel chuckled amiably. Michael began to relax at the beatific noise, but he hastily regained his caution. That was how Uriel liked to dispatch his targets. With subtle things, like a whisper in a firstborn's ear or even a laugh. Rarely did he ever utilize his full strength in matters.

"What do you want?" Michael demanded, lowering his guns warily. If Uriel wanted to harm him he would've done so already.

Uriel tilted his head, like the monster only moments before. "Are you afraid of me, brother?"

The word sent a pang of guilt and fury coursing through the fallen archangel. Michael swallowed down his emotion and hardened his heart. "I am no longer worthy of that honor."

Something like sadness appeared in the archangel's misty eyes. "You are still a brother to me."

"Enough!" Michael snapped. He would not show weakness to the Watchman. "What do you want? I order you to speak!"

Uriel sighed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his vest. "If you so refuse to be worthy of the title 'brother', then you must also know you are no longer Prince of the Host."

The words sank into Michael with bitter realization. He should've known He would do that, but it hadn't crossed his mind since he Fell. "Who holds it now?"

Uriel regarded him closely. "The Trumpeter."

_Gabriel._

Memories threatened to resurface, bringing unwanted emotion in its wake, but Michael fought it down with all the strength he could muster. "You vex me. Tell me what you want and leave."

Uriel nodded. "Just a talk, that is all."

A talk? A mere chat? Michael knew God would not send his trusted dagger to Earth for a simple talk with a Fallen. "You're lying."

Uriel smiled. "Don't be foolish. I can't do that."

"Then speak plainly."

Uriel rolled his eyes, a gesture that almost shook Michael from his hastily erected wall of anger. Such a human thing to do. The wizard must've rubbed off on him.

"I know what you think. He wouldn't send me here for a mere talk. I bear a message."

"Is that not Gabriel's job?" Michael said bitterly.

"Gabriel is indisposed. I was chosen for this instead." Uriel calmly walked forward, causing Michael to lift his weapons. The Watchman blinked at the muzzles of the guns. "You no doubt plan to protect the child. That is why you head for Bob Hanson's establishment."

Michael frowned but kept the guns trained on Uriel.

"It's a stupid thing to do."

"So I've been told."

"Nevertheless, you carry on." Uriel looked into his eyes. "The wrath of Heaven will be brought down upon you and those you protect. Even with the help of the Chosen there is little hope."

_Chosen?_ "What are you talking about?"

Uriel ignored him and continued on. "He is offering you one last pardon. Come back, and the child might be spared. Come back home."

Michael mulled the thought over in his head. Home. It had not been a full day and already he ached for the breeze of Paradise on his skin. He closed his eyes. "And the rest of humanity?"

Uriel was silent. "Retribution is nigh. The decree is already written, and souls are being harvested as we speak. You cannot save them from the destruction they have wrought for themselves."

Michael nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "But I will try."

Uriel sighed. "I expected that. He insisted, however, and I live to obey His holy law. He still loves you, Michael."

"Stop," Michael hissed. "Leave me."

Uriel stared at him with those unfathomable eyes. He bowed in assent, a symbol of respect that Michael knew he didn't deserve. Anymore, at least.

"The Chosen," Michael said, throwing the guns back into the car. He would not meet Uriel's eyes. "Who are they?"

The archangel grinned benignly. "Ah. The Children of Fate. Those destined for greatness, be it good or bad. You will meet some of them, I suppose, when you reach dear Bob's diner."

Michael had heard little to nothing of the Chosen in his days as Prince of the Host. Things like these were left for Uriel and his subordinates. He had to worry about the constant attacks on Heaven' by beings from the Dark. But what he did know was that Children of Fate were relatively uncommon, and the mere notion of meeting "some" of them where the unborn child rested was extraordinary.

"What does that mean?" he asked. "What do they have to do with things?"

Uriel was already gone.

Michael ground his teeth. The Watchman had a habit of disappearing and appearing whenever he felt like it, and when his victim least expected it.

The message was portentous, at best. He ignored His plea for his return; Michael was not about to give up when there was still hope. The Chosen were usually individuals of significant power, and he would need all the help he could get if he was to face the brunt of Heaven's fury.

_Where's the army of seraphim when you need it?_

With that dismal thought, Michael stepped back into the car and drove off, leaving a mound of mangled corpses and forgotten hopes behind.

* * *

**AN: Characters are as follows: Alex Rider (25). Harry Potter (31). Maximum Ride (16). Percy Jackson (17, almost 18). Also, if you haven't guessed, there will be some Dresden Files in it as well. **


	3. Gladys Foster

Compromise.

What every spy feared and constantly avoided at all costs. When every painstaking measure of care, caution, and security was ripped aside like a curtain of thin fabric, revealing that sacred calamity of truth in the bowels of layered secrecy. It was like dying, really. In MI6, switching identities was as common as signing paperwork. You learned to be another; put on a mask and change everything that was known about you previously and alter it too sometimes drastic degrees. Even the little things change: the way you hold your fork when eating, how some words roll along your tongue, a twitch above your eyebrow…a kiss on a stranger's lips. In Alex Rider's days under an aging Blunt's hawkish eye, he had been a German toymaker, a Chilean food vendor, a young British steel magnate, and even a South African football referee. He knew exactly what it was like to be someone else.

And when that terrible, excruciating moment of compromise came, that person was gone. Dead. A fading corpse in a graveyard of false paperwork and ID, only to be resurrected and worn once more in a moment's notice.

He no longer worked for MI6, true, but some things never leave you. He had almost unconsciously changed his full name the month before, lying wearily on the soiled mattress of a third-rate motel. Donovan Walker. Born in Pasadena, CA. Dropped out of high school junior year, tried to sell drugs while staying clean. Didn't work, relapsed, and started to wander. He was here now, in Paradise Falls.

But this time he didn't have the power of one of the world's most organized and deadly intelligence agencies to back him up. He had no perfectly crafted fake ID, or back-up sidearm resting on his hip. There wasn't going to be a car or a chopper to pull him out of the danger zone when things went FUBAR. It was him and Donovan Walker against the world, and if he was compromised, death would surely have both of them in its clutches.

But worrying would only quicken that fate. As Alex followed the black man into the diner, he composed himself, lowering his heart rate and easing that nervous jilt in his step to calm paces. He was once again met with the smell of freshly cooked food, but his hunger was already fully sated. The young couple was seated in the corner, hunched over in heated conversation. The cook was in the kitchen alone, and he could hear irate yells outside. Possibly the owner and the suburban man. There was a new individual in the diner, a very pretty young woman dressed in a wrinkled pink waitress' uniform. Dark honey-colored hair cascaded around a lightly tanned face, a face hardened by years of some unknown cruelty. He pocketed that observation for a later date, and focused his attention to the seat beside the east window.

The Englishman was eating his meal with care, slumped over almost unceremoniously over the table. His somber green eyes were glazed over and unfocused behind his spectacles, probably lost in some reverie. Alex's earlier opinion of him faltered. No agent would ever get distracted like that, especially one sent to hunt down the greatest asset MI6 had ever employed. Alex let his gaze slide over him as if in passing fancy. The stranger might've been good enough to feign distraction while keeping tabs on everyone in the building. He'd seen other men do it before; at the expense of total self-awareness, of course. It was a risky tactic, but effective if there was only one target. Even if that target was Alex Rider.

Voices brought him back from his silent survey.

"You got a phone I can use?" Kyle asked the waitress. She peered over at him, assessing the taller man with deep viridian eyes.

"Sure," she replied, a slight rasp to her voice. "Bob could let you use the diner phone, but only if you ask real nice. And if you pay 'im something."

Kyle nodded distractedly. "I can handle that."

The doorbell chimed once more, and Bob stalked back in, closely hounded by the well-dressed man and his small family. His wife was the typical suburban mother: face upheld by layers of cosmetics and bronzer, body fit from mornings at the gym. A well taken-care-of trophy. Her designer clothes were matted with sweat, however, and she looked absolutely miserable. Paradise Falls was the last place she wanted to be.

Her daughter was a different thing altogether. She was the same girl from before, when Alex had exited the diner. The wide belt that served as a skirt left her pale, shapely legs bare and the tight vest above left little to the imagination. Thick eyeliner and mascara gave her a sultry aura, and when those dark eyes met his, he had to repress a primal urge. He was older than the kid, yes, but he was still a guy. He ripped his gaze from her immediately only to find Kyle's still lingering.

"I don't know if you fully understand, sir," the father almost yelled. "But we have a family reunion at Scottsdale that's been two years overdue, and my brother's counting on me to show up this Christmas."

Alex could see the irritation burning in Bob's craggy face. "And I said my boy would get it working in a few hours."

"But we don't _have_ a few hours! I've also got an appointment with a buddy of mine who has his own business, so we're trying to work a deal out-"

"Well then, Mr. Anderson, if you're not pleased with the arrangement, please go find another mechanic."

"But there isn't one!" Mr. Anderson was livid.

Bob's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Really? Oh, no! Well, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to put up with the only mechanic around within a few hundred miles, sir."

Mr. Anderson was about to rattle on some more when his wife clutched his arm. "Howard, enough!" she hissed. She flashed Bob a pageant smile. "Thanks so much! We'll wait here for now."

She dragged him to a table, whispering something about making a scene. Their daughter rolled her eyes and made her way to the dusty jukebox in the corner, hips swaying. The sex appeal she was giving off must've hit every man in the room like a freight train. Alex's eyes swept to the Englishman, who was still eating. He was staring at the girl, a frown on his face.

_What are you thinking now, mate?_

**ooOOoo**

_Blimey. Two females without an ounce of self-respect in one day._

Harry's frown deepened.

_Well. At least this isn't Amsterdam._

He shuddered. Amsterdam had been confusing. And he wasn't just talking about the red light district.

The wizard finished his meal, his hunger finally sated. He stood up and handed the plate to Percy the cook. "Here you go, sir."

Percy arched an eyebrow. "We got Charlie for that, mister."

Harry shook his head. "Anything to lessen the load. She's with child."

Percy snorted, taking the plate and dumping it in the sink. "Don't I know it. Nine months we've had to put up with her mood swings and vanishing acts."

He nodded. Harry wondered whether to tell Percy about what exactly Charlie was doing after her "vanishing acts", but he decided against it. It wasn't any of his business, and if the waitress wanted to further harm herself and her unborn baby, then so be it. Harry thanked the cook and returned to his seat. He felt a little guilty for not divulging the information with him, but it is what it is. Things can take its proper course without his interference.

His left pocket burned once more, but he ignored it.

_Now. What the bloody hell do I do now?_

He wasn't hungry anymore. The Bacon & Egg Deluxe Combo had taken care of that very effectively. In fact, he was still slightly embarrassed that he had torn into that thing like Bill Weasley on raw steak. That tidbit threw English manners right out the window. Stomach aside, there really wasn't any reason for him to stay any longer. His eyes strayed to the pregnant waitress, who was patiently attending to the angry suburban couple. There was something odd about her that Harry couldn't grasp, some faint notion of importance. Harry wanted to help her. He really did. But strange sentiments aside, Paradise Falls would only be a memory. A memory he could easily extract if need be.

Harry prepared to leave when someone blocked his path.

"Hey, man," the thug-like black man from before said. "You got five dollars?"

From the way he stood and the missing tone of polite inquiry in his voice, Harry knew it wasn't more of a question than it was a threatening demand. He sighed and fished in his pockets, taking out a wrinkled five-dollar bill and handing it to him. "Spend it wisely," he advised jokingly.

The other man only glared at him and turned without a "thanks". Harry frowned. Yeah. He was definitely leaving this place.

"Am I the motherfuckin' Invisible Man?" the man asked, stepping in front of Bob. From the owner's expression, he had probably avoided him on purpose. "Do you have a phone here or not?"

"No, son. Line's been cut."

The man narrowed his eyes and handed Bob the five dollar bill. Bob snatched it out of his hand and gestured with his head. "In the back past the kitchen. Make it fast."

He stepped past Bob and Percy, making his way to the back.

"Your name?" Bob called after him.

"Kyle!" came the reply. The back door shut. Bob stared at the door for a long moment before sighing and turning away. Money must've been scarce as customers for them if five dollars elicited such a dramatic shift in response. Paradise Falls was getting weirder by the second, and Harry was glad to leave the place. Plus, the homeless man from earlier kept on glancing at him, and the wizard wasn't too fond of getting stared at.

He would leave the diner and go back behind the trailers. The Firebolt would come next, and he would fly past the…no. Too long. Maybe he could disapparate. That forgotten alley in Arizona was a great fallback point if he needed a quick stopover. The area around Phoenix seemed to be ripe with an unknown magical energy…

Harry rose, but hesitated. That damn waitress refused to leave his thoughts. _Just build a bridge and get over it, Harry. Burn it once you're through_. Reassured, Harry made for the door.

Instantly, a high hollow tone cut through the silence. Harry stopped halfway to the door, and turned. He immediately noticed two things. One, the program on the television had cut short, and the bright image of the Emergency Broadcasting System of the US took its place, emitting that high-pitched sound. Second, the blonde homeless man had been literally a few feet away from him, making his way towards the door also. Harry furrowed his brow.

"What the hell is that?" Howard asked blatantly.

"Nothing," Bob said, stepping back from the stool as if a little distance would bring some clarity. "Probably just a test."

"Right," said Percy. "Because there aren't any big white words that say 'this is not a test' on the screen."

Bob grunted in assent, crossing his arms in confusion. "Check the radio, Percy. They should have some broadcast over this."

Percy nodded and turned the dial on the old radio on the counter. The same hollow tone came from Bob's favorite oldies station. The cook frowned and switched channels. No change. Channel after channel produced the same damnable noise. Every head was turned toward the TV and the radio; even the young couple in the back had stopped their conversation to gawk. Harry squinted and approached the TV, noticing the homeless man quickly step out of the way.

"What's the emergency?" he thought aloud.

Bob blinked, as if noticing him for the first time. "Hell if I know. You folks in Britain get this stuff?"

Outside of the Wizarding World, he had no clue. He spent only a brief period of time in Muggle Great Britain after his flight from the past. Besides the Dursleys and their breakfast chats over the din of Dudley and his friends, Harry didn't know much about Muggle happenings and news. Still, he knew a crisis when he saw one, and the ominous blank screen was giving him chills.

"Not really. Hadn't had many national emergencies since World War II." That much he knew, at least, from some of the books Hermione had lent him during his schoolboy years. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"Maybe there was an earthquake?" Howard pointed out, weakly clutching his wife's hand.

"No."

They all turned to face the black-haired youth in the back. He was shaking his head, sea-green eyes glistening curiously. "It can't be."

"Why not?" Howard barked condescendingly.

"Because I would feel it."

Before anyone could question that strange remark, Kyle burst out of the back door, fuming. "Phone got disconnected. What the hell is going on?" He noticed the high-pitched sound and looked at the TV screen. "Shit."

"You said it, man. Something weird's going on."

"Maybe it's a terrorist attack." Howard said grimly.

"Oh God..." his partner gasped, covering her mouth.

"Now, now, no need to get all panicky. I'll just call my brother up in Needles and ask what's going-" he saw Kyle gesture at the back. "Shit! Forgot about that."

"What are we going to do?" the wife cried out, eyes shifting over to her daughter, who was draped over the juke box, watching the situation with acute interest.

"Don't worry, Sandra, they'll get our truck fixed soon, and then we'll get out of here." Howard glanced at Bob. "Right?"

"Don't worry, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Jeep'll get your vehicle up and ready in no time."

At the confused looks, he chuckled. "Jeep's my son."

"You named your son after a car?"

The doorbell jingled merrily. The sounds of rubber over tiles filled the silent diner as a little old lady entered the building, relying on a rickety metal walker for support. She was dressed in pleasant pink, and she looked like the living embodiment of everyone's favorite grandmother. Liver spots decorated her face, indicating her great age. Alarm klaxons rang in Harry's head. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. Frenzied whispering began behind him, and he risked a weak Listening Charm to hone in. Wandless magic had been an essential skill when on a mission, but it was relatively limited. Listening Charms were totally accessible, though, and he was glad for that fact.

"Something's wrong with her, Percy," the blonde girl hissed, clutching the young man with the same name as the cook's hand. They were still in the corner, as they had been for the past thirty minutes. "We need to leave."

"What are you worried about?" he reassured her. "She's fine. Actually, she reminds me of this substitute teacher we had in my old school. Nice lady. Smelled like cats, though."

"I'm serious, Percy!" she urged. Harry could feel the fear in her voice like it was some tangible thing. "She smells wrong."

"Like cats? I wouldn't worry about that too much."

"No, you idiot! She smells like…"

"Like what?"

The fright and uncertainty was clearly evident in the next thing she said. "Like a corpse."

The alarms intensified. Anything that looked dead, smelled dead, or _anything_ dead was bad news where he came from. The smell of death was usually accompanied by vampire nests, or a twisted Dark wizard's vile hideout. God forbid, even Inferi. His memories of the undead creatures were never good, and encounters always resulted in at least one dead colleague in his Auror days. His left pocket burned hotter than ever before, and beads of sweat coursed down his brow. He had to do something.

"Have a seat wherever you want, ma'am. Specials are on the board." Charlie informed her, much of her previous causticity gone.

"Thank you, dear," the old woman said, smiling. She sounded normal, but anything could be hiding underneath that seemingly harmless frame. Charlie handed her the menu, but the elderly lady waved a hand. "Oh, I already know what I want."

"Okay, what'll it be?"

"I'll have the steak, please."

"And how'd you like that cooked?"

"Rare, if you would. And water, no ice."

"Coming right up." She was about to leave when the old woman turned to her.

"Charlie, is it?" she inquired, dark eyes shining much too intelligently.

"Yeah," the waitress answered, a crease appearing on her brow.

"What an unusual name for a girl."

"So they say. I'll be right back with your order."

Charlie left, heading for the kitchen. Harry stepped aside and gently took hold of the crook of her arm. "Don't come back," he whispered, keeping his eyes on the old lady, who had begun to chat with the Andersons.

Charlie frowned, and shook Harry away. "Don't touch me. And it's none of your business if I come back or not."

Frustration boiled in Harry's gut. "Fine. I'm just warning you. Something's off with that woman."

Charlie looked at the laughing lady and back to Harry. "Right. You had a traumatic experience at a senior home when you were younger or something?"

Harry watched her stalk away. Man. He must be losing his touch. He had to be gentle with her, he understood that, but it was hard to be gentle and patient with a woman who was blazingly independent and stone-walled everything around her. Looks like being a Prefect back in school (or being a captain in the Auror department, for that matter) did absolutely nothing to improve his counseling skills. The wizard took a quiet breath and slowly slid into a seat nearby the woman. A quick look told him that the homeless man stood by the Andersons cautiously, like a guard dog on the edge of his leash. He knew something was up, and Harry's curiosity increased.

Also, how did that girl _smell_ death on the woman?

Suddenly, the lady swiveled in her seat, staring at Harry with her wide eyes. His heart nearly skipped a beat. "Why, hello there, young man. What's your name?"

Harry gulped. "Harry. Nice to meet you, ma'am." He extended his hand, eyes never leaving hers. She reached over and shook it.

"I'm Gladys. Gladys Foster."

_Merlin's beard._ Her palm was ice cold, and as firm as marble. A jolt ran through Harry's body at the touch. The woman seemed to sense his discomfort, and she grinned pleasantly. Then he noticed how her teeth were sharp, filed to points by some crude instrument. The alarms reached a crescendo, and he swore the object in his pocket was burning through his jeans. After a few excruciating seconds, they let go, and Harry leaned back a little too quickly. He wiped his shaking hand on his legs and looked away. Her eyes had been empty, soulless. It was like looking out a window in the middle of a moonless night. Pitch black and void of life.

The door opened, and Harry nearly jumped right out of his skin. It was a man, but it wasn't the demonic elderly counterpart he had half-expected him to be. He was young, at least as young as the homeless man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties. His brown hair was a buzz-cut, and he wore greasy mechanic overalls. The young man nearly froze at the sight of the old woman, but continued on, keeping an eye on her as he went.

"Carburetor's shot," he said in a Western twang to his father, Bob. "Don't know why. Looks brand new."

"Aw shit," Bob snapped. He glanced over at the Andersons, who were beginning to look very unsettled as they chatted with the visitor. "They're gonna be pissed."

"I could try to rebuild it, but it'd take a while, and I don't think we have all the parts. If we call right now we could be able to get a new one down here tomorrow morning."

Bob snorted. "Not gonna happen. Goddamn phone's out." He jutted his chin at the TV and radio. "Apparently we've got a national crisis."

Jeep looked very frightened, making up for the lack of concern Bob was showing. He met Harry's gaze, and he tilted his head in confusion. "Who're you?"

Across the diner, Charlie returned with a glass of water and a platter of blood red steak. She placed both on the table in front of Gladys. "Thank you, dear. How far along are you?"

Charlie caressed her belly, a strained smile on her face. "Just about there."

"The father must be _very_ proud."

The smile faltered. "I wouldn't know."

Gladys leaned back in surprise. "You mean he's…"

"Out of sight, out of mind."

Gladys nodded, turning her attention to the steak. Harry hadn't noticed before, but a contingent of flies had appeared around her, swirling around in furiously. Some landed in her steak, or on her face, but she paid no heed. Things were getting very creepy. "Oh, I see. So you're not married, I take it?"

"Nope."

Gladys tore into the steak with her bare hands, ripping apart the sirloin with a terrifying ferocity. She grinned and stuck whole handfuls into her open mouth, twisting her head like a wild animal. More flies appeared, much to Charlie's displeasure. She tried in vain to wave them away.

The Anderson daughter finally moved, her porcelain face a mixture of disgust and fascination. The blonde man in dirty clothing blocked her path, arm held out in warning. He too stared at Gladys with revulsion, his right hand creeping to his waist.

"Percy, we've got to do something!" the girl whispered frantically, still under the effect of Harry's Listening Charm.

"Whoa. She can _eat_."

"Percy!"

The old woman sighed noisily. "That's too bad. Being without a husband. I lost my dear Cain in '07. What a terrible year that was."

"No," Charlie remarked, still trying to wave away the flies. "I prefer it that way. I don't need a man telling me what to do."

"But what about the baby?"

"I've got it under control."

"Yeah, but it's going to burn."

That shut everyone up. The hollow tone and the whoosh of the overhead fans dominated the room once more. Percy the cook dropped a spatula. Bob and Jeep's jaws unhinged simultaneously. Kyle and the Anderson glanced from where they sat. Harry was shocked at first, but his initial surprise was overcome by a cold fury. Who says things like that? His left hand disappeared in his pocket, moving on its own accord, where a small fire had erupted. His fingers singed as they met smooth, elder wood.

"What did you say?" Charlie choked, somehow regaining her voice.

Gladys continued to smile pleasantly. "I said your fucking baby's gonna burn."

Charlie shook her head, her eyes very wide. "Go to hell, lady." Then she turned and walked away. "Total fucking Jesus freak," she muttered as she stormed past Harry, Bob, and Jeep. Jeep followed her into the kitchen, much like an adoring puppy.

Gladys laughed innocently, stuffing herself with the half-finished steak. Red juice dripped down her chin, and the number of flies multiplied. Where were they coming from? The Andersons started to back away, finally sensing the danger.

"All those babies," Gladys continued in a sing-song voice. "They're all gonna burn."

"Gladys, please," Sandra said warily, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. "There's no reason to-"

Gladys's head whipped towards her. "Shut up, you stupid fucking cunt! All you do is complain! Complain! Complain!"

There was a collective gasp. Sandra covered her mouth in total shock. Gladys was now the center of attention, and she looked positively smug. A vein popped in Howard's forehead, and he stood from his seat. Sandra whimpered. "Howard, it's okay! Don't listen to her!"

Howard ignored her and towered over Gladys, who had gone deathly still. "Who the hell do you think you are, lady!? Now apologize to my-"

Gladys suddenly lunged at Howard, gripping him by the collar and taking a monstrous _bite_ from his neck. Howard's screams mingled with the old woman's savage laughs.

Chaos erupted. Sandra shrieked, stumbling out of her seat and crying for her husband. Bob cursed and joined Percy the cook, who was holding a frying pan with a shaking hand. Gladys lifted Howard with humongous strength and sent him flying across the diner. He hit the far wall with a sickening thud. She yowled bestially, a sound from the very depths of Hell itself. Her thin arms flailed, and the table was knocked over.

"You're all going to fucking die!" she howled.

The cook cried out and swung the frying pan from behind the counter. The metal connected with a gruesome thwack, and bones broke and popped right out her scrawny neck. She swayed for a moment, her movements watched by everyone in the room.

Amazingly, Gladys straightened and grinned at the others sweetly.

Then, she let loose an inhuman scream and scrambled across the diner, knocking chairs and tables aside in her wake. Bob sputtered a few curses and reached under the counter, where he produced a wicked-looking sawed-off shotgun. "Don't move!" he warns her, pumping the weapon.

Gladys not only moved, but she stretched up in a giant vertical leap, connecting with the ceiling and running across it like some bizarre spider. Bob gaped, but recovered just in time for the lady to rush across the ceiling and drop towards him. He misfired, creating gaping holes in the ceiling plaster.

Bob fumbled to cock the shot gun, his fingers shaking. "Fuck!"

Gladys grinned once more and slapped him clear across the room.

The shot gun flew and clattered by Jeep's feet, who had rushed in from the kitchen only seconds before. "Dad?" he asked weakly.

"Shoot it!" Bob roared, struggling to get up from the mess of chairs he landed on. Jeep picked it up without hesitation and aimed it at her. Jeep licked his lips and lifted the weapon, but stopped when Gladys froze, and a white, milky film covered her eyes.

"_**You'll never save her.**_"

An expression of utter anguish crossed Jeep's face, and the shotgun quivered in his grip. Gladys howled in victory and rushed forth, her nails growing to incredibly sharp points. "Shoot the fucking bitch!" the cook cries from the kitchen, rifling through a tray of gleaming knives.

Jeep was frozen.

Gladys smiled and lifted her arm.

**ooOOoo**

Many things happened at once.

Alex Rider, who had reunited the Anderson girl with her mother, Sandra, leapt forward, gripping the deformed thing's head and twisting fiercely. They both dropped to the ground with a thud. Gladys howled in pain, standing up before Alex could and letting loose a horrible, amplified shriek. Alex cursed and scrambled away, covering his ears.

Gladys snarled and rocketed towards him.

The blonde girl beside the other Percy intercepted her rush with a tackle that started from too far away and with too much strength to be normal by any means. They hit the counter, Gladys's skull colliding with the tough surface. Max straddled her, landing punch after punch that hit with loud smacks against the woman's face. Strangely, the girl's back began to bulge, as if something was fighting against the confines of her jacket. Gladys pushed her off, her strength renewed. The woman-beast tore into Max's outstretched arms, but the younger girl made no sound of pain.

A hand gripped Gladys's collar. She paused her attack to look, and a fist with the force of nine men slammed into her face. Percy, the younger black-haired one, lifted the woman with one hand and sent her flying across the room. She hit the edge of a table, her back snapping from the force. A pitiful mewl escaped her lips, but it soon morphed into a vicious growl. Percy rolled his shoulders, withdrawing a golden ball point pen from his jacket pocket and smiling readily.

"Show me what you got, grandma," he challenged.

Gladys roared and jumped from the floor with surprising speed, her spine snapping back into place. Percy swerved, avoiding her feral swipe, and swung down. The pen had shifted into a shining bronze sword faster than the eye could blink, and promptly removed Gladys's left arm from the elbow down. Dark, viscous blood oozed from the wound, eliciting a pained scream, but she did not slow down. A swift kick to the gut sent Percy to his knees, and pain exploded on his cheek as Gladys raked her nails across his face. Percy slashed horizontally, slashing her belly open and sending loops of grey intestines spilling out.

Gladys grinned. "Ouch."

She yowled and brought her arm back once more.

Suddenly, she paused, sniffing. Unbeknownst to everyone in the diner, the room temperature had begun to steadily increase the second after Gladys ripped poor Howard's throat open. Gladys sensed the overbearing heat and locked onto the lone man standing, a tense figure in jeans, a white shirt, and a torn traveler's vest. She tilted her head even as her eyebrows singed from the rising heat.

"There you are," she whispered.

Harry Potter met her dark gaze, and he pointed the Elder Wand at the angel-possessed woman. "Burn, bitch."

A roaring conflagration burst forth from the tip of the Death Stick, a small tornado of flames in the interior of Paradise Falls diner. The windows burst under the pressure of the fire, and everyone fell flat on their backs. The scarlet twister twined across the diner like a serpent, blooming thicker and thicker until Gladys was enveloped in its destructive embrace. Her screams were drowned out by the roar of the fire, a pure force of nature controlled only by the will power of the Elder Wand's master. The screams died down, but Harry continued to point his wand, her black remains dancing like a marionette in the belly of the dragon.

He closed his eyes.

The fire paused, as if caught in slow motion. Then, the tornado shot back into the tip of Harry's wand, gone as soon as it disappeared. There was a silent vibration as the power of that magic disappeared; the laws of physic returning to its proper state.

Harry opened his eyes, like a child discovered by his parents after doing something wrong. What remained of Gladys was a charred husk as small as a child and producing a disgusting odor. Smoke rose from the area of destruction, a remarkably thin path relative to the size of the diner. Harry had controlled the twister well.

Gladys Foster was dead.


	4. Questions

**AN: Sorry for the long wait. Here it is!**

"Somebody help me!"

The moment of complete and utter shock was broken by Sandra's plaintive cry. She knelt by her husband, whose tailored suit was drenched in blood around the collar, his body twitching spasmodically with every spurt of crimson liquid from his mangled neck. Alex tore his gaze away from the Englishman, who was staring wide-eyed at the stretch of burn marks that marred the length of the diner. The former spy got up, nursing a bruise on his elbow, and rushed to Sandra's aid. Kyle joined him a moment later, laying tentative hands on Howard's chest.

"Press your hands over the hole!" he barked, gripping the hem of his jacket and trying in vain to tear it. Alex understood and ripped his shirt, gently pressing the cloth on the man's wound. Bile rose in Alex's throat as the feel of blood soaked through the material and onto his hands. Sandra was watching them with dumb fascination, one hand absently stroking her husband's hair.

"Don't look at us like that, lady!" yelled Kyle. "I'm trying to fuckin' help you! Now put your goddamn hands over your husband's neck before he bleeds to death!"

Sandra snapped out of her trance and helped Alex press the cloth on Howard. Even with her help the blood continued to flow through the thin cotton. Movement sounded behind Alex, and the cook appeared beside him, a first-aid kit held in his steady hands. The man looked calm, slowly removing Sandra's trembling fingers from Howard's neck and getting to work on the wound. Howard twitched as the cook steadily inserted a needle and thread into the torn flap of skin that gapped his throat.

"What the fuck was that!?" Bob cried from the other side of the room. Alex turned. The owner had never looked so distraught. The lines on his face, etched roughly by the years of stagnant despair that seemed to permeate the air around the diner, were drawn tight across his face. _"What the fuck was that!?"_

No one had an answer. Alex watched as Audrey curled up in a corner, shivering like a frightened child. No. She was a frightened child. The "independent adult" façade had faded, and the real Audrey remained. He traced her horrified gaze to see Gladys' trail of blood still dripping from the ceiling. A few dark puddles of the substance oozed by her feet. A shiver of revulsion coursed through him.

"We need to get him out of here," Alex whispered, his throat becoming very dry.

"What?"

"I said we need to get him out of here!" he snapped, causing Kyle to frown. "We need to get him to a hospital."

Kyle nodded. "We'll use my car."

Alex gripped Howard's feet while Kyle took him by the shoulders. With a grunt, they lifted him. Howard moaned; Sandra whimpered. Bob was staring at them curiously, as if confused by their decisiveness. The confusion had not diminished from his mind. Percy the cook shook him roughly. "Help us, Bob."

Bob nodded, still entranced. He walked forward dumbly, led by the Vietnam veteran. Kyle opened the door, and Alex squinted at the glare of the Mojave sun. It was still unbearably hot, and there was no wind or breeze. Dark clouds loomed ominously in the distance, hurdling over the brown mountaintops and blanketing the horizon in a murky haze. They rushed to Kyle's Escalade, opening the side door and laying Howard inside. Sandra clambered in, whispering words in Howard's ear.

Audrey burst out of the diner, black tears running from her mascara-laced eyes and across her temples. Alex blocked her path. "Stay inside," he ordered her.

"What the fuck? Get out of my way, that's my dad!"

"I know. Stay inside."

Audrey tried to shove past him, shrieking her father's name. The black-haired teen from before came out of the diner and grabbed her by the shoulder's, lifting her with surprising ease. His sea-green eyes met Alex's, and they exchanged nods. He carried her into the building, screams issuing from her throat all the while. Alex waited until they were inside to get inside the Escalade, kneeling by Howard.

Percy the cook was in the passenger seat, methodically sifting through the contents of the medical kit. Kyle jammed the key into the ignition, slamming the accelerator the moment the vehicle rumbled to life. Howard groaned as the Escalade bumped onto the road. His blood still ran profusely; a sharp metallic tang permeated the air, prickling Alex's tongue.

Alex slowly rubbed Sandra's back. Tears were running down her cheeks. "Everything's going to be alright, ma'am. We'll get your husband to a hospital and find out what the hell's going on."

She didn't respond. The suburban wife could only shut her eyes and lay her brow on Howard's chest. _Poor thing_. Hours of town hall meetings and weekends at the gym could not have prepared her for anything like this. When it came to death and war, the majority of the American people were almost painfully unaware. Alex took his eyes off of Sandra to look through the windshield. The clouds from before were lower now, hemmed in around them with an almost sentient organization. It was moving, actually, forming around the road in a pincer-like formation. Alex frowned. A weird noise was humming around them, a noise that was vaguely familiar.

"What the hell are those?" he muttered.

"They're fuckin' clouds!" Kyle snapped. "What do they fuckin' look like!?"

"Those aren't clouds," Alex said with growing horror. The sound was terribly apparent now. He remembered the flies circling around Gladys making the same bloody noise. "Clouds don't buzz."

Loud splats drew their attention. Kyle cursed as several dark spots splattered on the window. Bugs. The clouds weren't clouds after all. The swarm of what must have been millions upon millions of insects bore down upon them. The cook froze, his hands clutching a ball of thread. "God almighty…"

The buzzing erupted into a deafening crescendo as the car entered the swarm. Sandra shrieked as the windows were stained in a revolting mess of black and red, the intestines of hundreds of bugs. The buzzing seemed to shake the car, but it was actually the swarm that buffeted the Escalade, trying to crush the car with deadly intent.

"We need to go back!" Percy roared over the din. He yelled as a locust crept in through the air vent. The cook cursed and slammed the bug with the first-aid kit, leaving a gory mess on the dashboard.

"Fuck that!" Kyle screamed. He was clutching the wheel with shaking hands. "Fuck it all!" There was a giant splat as something big hit the windshield. "Shit!"

"I agree," Alex said. A thrill of fear fluttered deep inside of him as a spider-web cracked its way onto the window. "We have to go back. There's no way we can make it through this mess."

Kyle's face was a field of warring emotions. "Fine!" he snarled. "We go back." The vehicle shook as he furiously turned it around. The swarm realized their intent almost immediately, and the buzzing increased. Alex could barely see out of the car now. Dark-colored gore painted the windows to opaqueness; it was a wonder Kyle could still see.

Sandra began to cry once more. Howard was moaning again, shaking slightly where he lay. He was literally dying in Sandra's arms, and all she could do was press a small length of dirty cloth against his neck. Alex immediately felt for her. "Sandra…" he began.

She shook her head frantically. "Stop," she whispered. Her voice tore its way up her throat, mangled and anguished. "Please don't."

The buzzing was beginning to lessen. "The swarm," Alex remarked. "It's stopping. They're not hitting us anymore."

"No," replied the cook. "We're just getting out of it."

"Both," Kyle cut in. "The diner's up ahead."

The Escalade ground to a halt. Alex immediately opened the side door, helping Sandra lift her husband from the bloodied seats. The cloud of insects surrounded the diner, stopping just at the side of the road. The bugs continued to swarm, but they did not move past the line. Kyle and the cook opened the door for them, and they stumbled inside. The others jumped at the sound of the merry jingle.

_"What happened?"_ screamed Audrey. She rushed forward, followed closely by the black-haired teen. _"Why are you back?"_

"Look outside the damn windows," Kyle shot back. He stopped, his back suddenly straightening. His head whipped towards the wall. "What the fuck?"

"What's wrong?" Alex asked.

"The windows," he muttered back. "Weren't they shattered by…" he trailed off. All eyes turned to the Englishman. The man sat in the corner, eyes distant and body stiff. Sure enough, the windows looked perfectly pristine and unmarred. Alex saw traces of awe and fear in the others' eyes. _What happened?_

The cook hurried past them towards the kitchen. Bob tried to grab his arm, but the veteran would not be stopped. "Where are you going?" the owner demanded.

"To get my Bible."

"The hell you need that for?"

"Well somebody gotta start prayin'…"

The kitchen door swung squeakily in the cook's wake. Bob stared after him, mystified. Alex wasn't much of a religious man, so he was as much in the dark as Bob. They didn't need a Bible right now. They needed serious medical attention. Sandra and Audrey were huddled over Howard, screaming his name and hoping that in itself would resuscitate him. Bob was about to go help when he noticed the buzzing.

He slowly approached the windows, along with Jeep and Charlie. They seemed almost hesitant to go near the glass, as if a touch would poison them. Charlie kept on glancing at the Englishman, who was still eerily silent. The undulating black curtain of bugs wavered just a few hundred yards out, by the side of the road.

"Why aren't they movin'?" Jeep thought aloud. "Why are they just…there?"

A bright red haze filtered through the swarm, blanketing the diner in a scarlet glow. The sun was setting. No one dared breathe. The night was approaching, and if the day had borne such events, what terrors would be unleashed in the coming darkness? Alex felt an involuntary shudder creep through him.

A pained moan cut the almost sacred silence. Alex snapped out of his reverie and rushed to Howard. Audrey was pouring alcohol on his wound, a gory mess of tendons and muscles chewed to the very bone. The cook had returned with the liquid, a tattered Bible tucked underneath his handless arm. "Hold it steady honey," he warned her.

Audrey was trembling. The vial of alcohol quivered in her grasp. The blonde girl, the one who had saved Alex from Gladys, suddenly crouched down and removed the alcohol from Audrey's hand. She gently moved her aside and began to tend to his injury. The hooked war vet grunted in appreciation.

"Not much you can do here, Mr. Walker," the cook sighed. It took a moment for Alex to remember his own alias. "I suggest you let me handle this one. I've seen my fair share of battle wounds."

_And so have I, jarhead. So have I. _Alex kept that last comment to himself and nodded understandingly. He stood up and strode across the diner, joining Bob, Jeep, and the younger teen by the counter. They were inspecting Gladys' remains gravely.

"Bitch's been charbroiled real good," Bob grunted. He risked a glance at the still seated Englishman. "Lucky one of us keeps a portable fucking flame thrower the size of a goddamn toothpick in our pocket."

"She can't stay here, dad." Jeep was staring at the burnt corpse with revulsion, his soft features twisted. "It's wrong."

"Hell, it ain't _right_," Bob shook his head. "Soon as we get this thing out of here I'm startin' the questions. Shit just got messed up." He turned to the teen. "And you! How the Sam hill did you get a sword in this place?"

The teen blinked. "You can see it?"

"Course I can! Waving it around and slashing crazy old ladies ain't a great way to hide that sort of thing."

"No!" The young man seemed very shocked. "I wasn't trying to hide it. It's just that…" he stopped, lost in his confusion.

"Whatever," Bob cut in. "We'll have Show and Tell later. Let's just get this thing out of my diner."

The owner rummaged beneath the counter and pulled out a long section of rolled-up grey tarp from a shelf. They gingerly wrapped the corpse in its fold and headed for the door. "Kyle!" Bob called. "Little help here."

The other man had been lounging by the door, slowly fingering something at his hip. He opened the door and helped lift the body, careful not to touch the piece of charred flesh hanging from the material. Alex watched them go, stopping by the door. When they had fully exited, the former spy turned around. The Englishman had not moved.

"Hey, you," he called. "Let's talk."

The man stiffened for a split second, then resumed his stony indifference. Alex rounded the table and sat in front of him, looking him square in the eye. "I don't know what stunt you pulled back there," he growled, real anger blossoming within him. "And I really don't care. But if you're going to sit there and sulk through this shitstorm then I will personally borrow Bob's shotgun and shoot you without a second thought."

The British man's somber green eyes glistened behind dusty glasses. Alex forgot his indignation momentarily, swimming in those strange eyes and searching for that nugget of truth that would reveal the immense pain the man bore like a mountain. The former MI6 operative saw it in too many young men, those shell-shocked veterans whose innocence was ripped away and whose pure skin was maimed with scars and wounds. The oddly-shaped scar on the man's forehead, partly hidden by a fringe of black hair, drew his attention. A scar shaped like a lightning bolt. How the bloody hell did one get a scar shaped like a lightning bolt? Was it a rite of passage? A badge of honor, a mark for some secretive cult? The more Alex looked at this strange man the more he wanted to know about him. A spy's innate curiosity, Blunt had said.

But all things needed a beginning. So, Alex let his face soften and he extended a hand. "But enough with that. I trust you're an able man. What's your name?" He had heard it earlier, but it faded from his memory a while back.

The green-eyed man stared back at him for an age.

**ooOOoo**

I'm not a great guy.

Lots of people think that I am. Being the savior of Olympus and all, the word "hero" is often lumped as synonymous with "good person". But I'm not even a hero. Far from it. I never wanted to be one, but that's now my brand. My mark. Can I escape it? Hades, no. Not anymore.

I'm Percy Jackson. Son of a mortal and a deity. Poseidon, to be specific. Yeah, you heard me. Greek god of the sea, wicked trident, rocks an awesome 70's beard. He may have shaved recently, but you get the picture. Being the son of a god, especially one of the Big Three, I get all kinds of sweet perks: the ability to control all types of water, communication with horses and sea creatures, hot Nereid babes clamoring for my attention (maybe not that last part), and lots of other neat stuff. Did I mention I was freaking nigh-invincible as well? A bath in the River Styx tends to do that to you. The Achilles curse may have added a lot more depression and emotional turmoil for the user, but it had its upsides.

So how does this super-awesome, ruggedly handsome young man find himself trapped in a roadside truck stop and diner with a few lost souls, a hot-tempered winged chick, a hobo, and a pyromaniac with a flame-throwing juju stick?

My sharp intellect, of course!

My ex-girlfriend calls me "Seaweed Brain" for a reason.

But those memories hurt. And as a nearly invulnerable demigod with superpowers, I hurt way too much.

I rubbed my cheek as I helped Kyle, Bob and his son lift Shark Lady's body out into the desert. I would've called her Mrs. Fritz, my old substitute teacher, if it weren't for those sharp teeth that had nearly decapitated poor Howard. And whose fingernails left an irritating itch on my face.

"I don't get it," Bob remarked, staring at the swarming mass of bugs near the side of the road. "Why don't they move any closer?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know, man? You askin' me to explain the behavior of a motherfuckin' pestilence?"

That Kyle's got a way with words. "They must be enthralled," I pointed out. It wasn't anything new where I came from. "But to control a swarm that large, the charmer's got to be one tough nut."

The three men threw weird glances at me. "Whatever, Sword Boy," Bob snorted.

I was genuinely offended. "Hey. I'm supposed to be the name-giver!"

But his nickname still miffed me. Vanilla mortals couldn't see my sword, Riptide. They just couldn't. There was a thing called the Mist that shielded anything supernatural from normal human eyes, so Riptide looked exactly like a ballpoint pen to them. Or was supposed to. Why it wasn't working confused me, and I don't like being confused. The dyslexia and ADHD that naturally came with all demigods already gave me daily headaches if I wasn't around ancient Greek or anything else Greek-related.

I stopped, feeling something against my foot. I frowned and reached down picking up a pair of silver keys from the sand. "You guys!" I called. "I think I found her keys!"

"Good," Bob replied. "We'll just put the bitch in there and let her rot."

Language, language, language. If Chiron were here he'd be scrubbing poor Bob's tongue with a bar of soap yelling, "A crass mouth needs cleaning, young man!" And he actually had the license to be calling ill-natured sixty-year olds "young men". The centaur was thousands of years old.

Kyle and Jeep were peering through the dead lady's car, a rickety Cutlass Supreme. My stepdad had an obsession for anything with an engine and wheels, so his omniscient knowledge of cars had rubbed off on me whenever I was at home with Mom. Yet another thing that reminded me of what I left behind.

"What do you see in there?" Bob asked. He was helping me carry Gladys while they were searching.

"Nothing, dad."

"No Twilight Zone shit if that's what you mean."

Jeep slipped the key into the driver's side door and unlocked it with a click. "Careful," Bob warned. "Old lady could have some rabid poodle locked up in there." Ugh. I hated poodles.

Jeep slowly swung open the door and leaned forward. He immediately recoiled in disgust. Kyle frowned and sniffed. "Ah!" the older man yowled, squeezing his nostrils shut. "What the fuck is that smell?"

I walked over, curious. I took a quick sniff and pulled a face. The stench was revolting, like someone had left several bodies in there to rot for a couple of weeks. I unlocked the side door from the interior and pulled it open. It was dark and a little dirty, but nothing unusual. Not the rotting corpse of her grumpy old husband. "Nothing in here," I told them.

"How 'bout the trunk?" Jeep asked.

"You're checking that one out, kiddo," I said, patting him on the back.

You know those guys who wore their emotions with a constant frown? Yeah. Jeep was one of those guys. I couldn't tell if he was mad, confused or maybe even a little happy that a boy a couple years his junior was treating him like a kindergartner. Well. He wasn't all that intelligent, so he must've been confused. Jeep averted his gaze and tentatively opened the trunk.

The sight would've made a harpy barf.

A pile of dead cats lay in her trunk. A pile of dead _rotting_ cats. A pile of dead rotting cats that also happened to be seriously _maggot-infested_. My breakfast threatened to return with a squishy vengeance and repaint my shoes. Bob thankfully slammed the trunk closed before my snazzy trainers met that grisly fate.

"Bitch's got motherfuckin' dead cats in her hoopty! What the fuck is wrong with white people?"

"Least we know where that smell is coming from," Bob grunted. That man liked to grunt a lot, I noticed.

"'Cuz that was definitely my life goal," I replied solemnly. "Now my life is complete."

"Hey…" said Jeep. "There's a car on the road."

**ooOOoo**

I would've further mocked Jeep the Incredibly Bright and Astute if we weren't out in the middle of nowhere, and the last car I'd seen belonged to a crazy devil lady. Sure enough, headlights pierced through the swarm of bugs, twin beacons that could've spelled our doom as well as our salvation.

It probably ended up being both, in the end.

A bug-intestine stained police vehicle veered off the road, the large letters on the paint telling me it was an LAPD squad car. It skidded to a wild stop, leaving a hazy trail of smoke in its wake. The engine rattled as the dust cleared around it. I couldn't see any movement behind its gore-splattered windows.

"Now we're talkin'," Bob (wait for it!) grunted.

"But that's LAPD," Jeep said, squinting his eyes at it as if to confirm its existence. "What's a cop from LA doing all the way out here?"

So he wasn't as dumb as I thought. We looked at Kyle. He smirked, more amused than insulted. "I'm from Nevada, man."

We gazed at the squad car some more. That's when I noticed the shattered passenger window and blood stains. Great. Bad Cop from Way Downtown's come to pay us a visit. I sighed, took Riptide from my pocket, and approached the police car.

"Get back here, boy!" Bob hissed. The shotgun had materialized in his hands. Jeep must've been holding onto it without me noticing.

"Let me handle this," I assured them. I didn't want any more innocent blood spilled when I could do something about it. If someone was going to bleed, it should damn well be me.

"Oh thank God. The police!" Charlie the pregnant waitress came running out of the diner. Jeep yelled out her name, and man did that guy wear his heart on his sleeve. But before anyone could do anything, the driver's door opened. Charlie froze, Jeep clutching her by the elbow. Both stared at the car in frozen fascination.

The cop didn't look like a cop at all. He didn't have a uniform, for starters. He wore this big tan trench coat that almost grazed the sand, big enough to hide all sorts of things in those deep pockets. When the stranger turned to face us, Bob lifted the shotgun threateningly. "Not another move, sir."

The man pivoted, giving us a full view of his face. It was disappointingly unassuming, almost. Tan, grizzled and rough, like a seasoned veteran. Close-cropped brown hair barely covered his skull, and thin lips were set grimly below a crooked nose. Beneath his trench coat, cuts and scratches adorned his black body armor, telling me that this wasn't any normal cop. He scanned the diner, pointedly ignoring us, and shut the door.

"Hey mister," Bob shot. "I'm talkin' to you."

The visitor finally regarded us. He scanned each of our faces, lingering on Charlie for an inexplicable moment. I could hear the waitress' voice hitch as she struggled to find words. Then, he looked at me.

I don't think I'd ever seen eyes that blue. They weren't bright and mesmerizing, like Silena Beauregard's had been before those dreadful last days of the Titan war. They were light and clear, a misty blue so contrasting it softened his tough exterior. Those eyes had seen things.

It was sad that I was used to seeing those kinds of eyes.

"My friend here spoke to you," I said. "The polite thing to do is reply."

He smiled, not showing his teeth. "Naturally."

Geez. He was enjoying himself, wasn't he? "Well? Bob here is having one heck of a day, and who knows if his finger accidentally slips on the trigger? Stress is a powerful thing."

The man squinted at the muzzle of the shotgun. "Oh, he wouldn't hurt me."

"Hell I won't. One step closer and I'll drop you right here."

He regarded Bob for a moment, clearly unimpressed. "That how you greet all your customers?"

"Mister, after what we've been through today, you're lucky we didn't shoot you first and greet you later. Now let me see your teeth."

The stranger looked at him blankly.

"Your teeth goddamn it! Let me see 'em!"

He complied. They weren't well-kept, but they were definitely normal. I felt a weight lift from my chest.

"No sharp teeth, Pop," Jeep remarked. Bob nodded and sighed. The gun dropped, hanging limply at his side.

"Well…suppose you can tell us your name?"

Not a moment's hesitation. "Michael."

"Sorry about all that, Michael. This old lady just went crazy inside my place here. She had these teeth." He gestured to his mouth, miming fangs. "Never seen anything like 'em. Practically bit a man in half."

If Michael the not-cop seemed surprised, he didn't show it. In fact, judging by the grim look on his face, it looked as if he was expecting it. "So what are you doing out here?" I prodded. "You don't look like a cop. And if you were, why would you drive all the way out from LA to get here, out of all places?"

"And who'd be crazy enough to steal a cop car?" Bob tried an amiable chuckle. Michael didn't respond. The laughs died down, and Bob grew anxious again. He slowly raised the shotgun. Michael scanned us once more.

"You don't know do you?"

I felt a chill slide down my spine. "Know what?"

"We don't know anything out here," Charlie spoke up. She had her arms wrapped around her chest, looking extremely vulnerable in her frayed waitress uniform. "Nothing's working. The TV, the radio, the phone…"

She trailed off. A heavy silence had settled over us. Everyone was trying to put up a brave front, like they could handle the situation and move on, but it was just a farce. Isolation took its toll, and the craziness left us confused, worried, and absolutely frightened out of our wits.

Yes. I was scared. The Hero of Olympus was terrified. You can laugh and point, but it's the truth. I was so psyched out my knees began to shake, and I had to hold on to Riptide to steady my legs. For some reason the thought of staying here helpless while the world crumbled around me was a lot scarier than taking on the Lord of Time himself.

Michael scanned us once more. He shook his head. "I'm running out of time."

He took a step towards Charlie.

Bob pointed his gun at him. "Back off, fella…" He licked his lips. "Now I don't care if this is the second coming of Jesus fucking Christ, I'd say it's about time for you to get talking or get the hell out of here!"

Michael moved. He was fast. I didn't mean "athlete" fast. The guy was demigod fast, maybe even faster. I blinked, and the next thing I knew he was towering over Bob, the shotgun clutched in his hand. And not only was it clutched in his hand, but the barrel was pressed firmly against the bridge of Bob's nose. Everyone froze.

"Easy! Easy!" Kyle yelled, his hands up. "No need for that, man." Michael's soft blue eyes were mercilessly cold, and I saw no hesitation on his face. If killing Bob meant accomplishing his goal, then he had no qualms.

"C'mon Dad!" Jeep cried. "Tell him you're sorry. Tell him you were only kidding!"

Bob couldn't speak. Hades, he was scared. The diner owner squeezed his eyes closed, as if resigned to his fate. His life quivered on the edge of the trigger.

"_Let 'im go!_" Charlie screamed.

Michael's eyes lit up momentarily. He quietly regarded Charlie. Then he looked at her swollen belly. Bob whimpered pathetically.

The diner doors chimed open. The British guy came stalking out of the store, his juju stick pointed threateningly at Michael. The hobo and the cook were hot on his heels, assessing the situation in an instance. I could feel something different about the Englishman. The humble timidity he bore before was gone, now replaced by a resolve that quickened his step. I frowned. What happened in there?

"Damn the statute," he growled. His dark green eyes were watery with anger. "Damn it all. If you kill that man I will blast you across this desert until there's nothing left for even the bloody crows to eat."

"What he said." the cook followed.

Michael narrowed his eyes, Bob shaking under him. The hobo stepped forward, arms up as if in surrender. "I'm sure you don't want to spill blood unnecessarily. And I'm doubly sure it won't be worth it in the long run."

A tense silence. The dirty man took a deep breath. "You also look like a man on the run. You're trying to escape something. I don't know what that is, and I don't know what for, but if this is your last stop, killing the owner of this diner won't help you much, would it?" He dropped his hands. "So whaddya say?"

It was a good sell, but Michael wasn't buying it. At all. I sighed. Well, if that wasn't going to work—I gripped my sword—then some old-fashioned tit for tat, as the Brits say, would do the trick.

I clicked the pen, and Riptide came springing to life. Jeep noticed, and he opened his mouth to say something. Gods, what a dim guy. I launched myself at Michael's unprotected back before Jeep called me out. _Two can play that game, you crummy little—_

The not-cop whirled around, shockingly fast, but I was expecting it. I felt Riptide slice through the barrel of the shotgun like melted butter, and a small expression of confusion passed through Michael's face. He avoided the sword like radioactive material, dodging nimbly when I sliced at his chest. "Quit running around and fight!" I roared.

"Stop trying to kill me and I'll be negotiable."

"That's real funny coming from you."

"Percy!" the cook who shared my name called. "He's right. Drop your sword and let's talk."

I bit the inside of my cheek. Michael was well out of my reach, rocking calmly on the balls of his feet. His eyes were glued onto my sword. Reluctantly, I tucked Riptide away. "Fine. Let's…talk."

"Better."

As Michael regarded us once more, I could detect a faint hint of satisfaction on his face. Was he expecting this type of reaction? Did he desire it? That barely perceptible smile made me want to punch his face in. Before I could do anything, I noticed something behind Michael. Were those headlights in the distance?

"Guys!" I pointed at the road.

Dread fell on us the moment we took in the sight. Dozens of cars were approaching the diner, small pinpricks of light in the darkening haze. The sun was fast disappearing. I took a few steps back, not sure if they were even real, or some hallucination conjured from my fried brain.

"They could be refugees or some shit," said Kyle.

"No," Michael breathed. "They're here."

"Who's here?" Bob finally said, rubbing his nose. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Michael pivoted and strode towards the squad car throwing the bisected shotgun at Bob's feet. I followed him, fists clenched. "Don't tell me you're leaving us…?"

He went around the car and opened the trunk. I peered from the side, half-expecting another litter of rotting cats. I gaped.

"Any cats?" Jeep asked, and I almost laughed.

"Nope. No cats. Just a crap load of guns and grenades."

Kyle came zooming from ten yards away, eyes widening at the arsenal before him. "Damn. Is that an M16?"

"M4 Carbine, collapsible stock. This," Michael took a gun out from under the pile. "Is an M16." He began to unload the weapons, checking each cartridge methodically. The cook walked forward, expression grave.

"Lord have mercy." He waved his hand at Sandra and her smoking hot daughter, who had just come out to see what was going on. "You ladies best get back inside."

"What is it? What's happening? Who is this man? Why is he driving a police car?"

"Shut up, mom!"

She dragged her back inside the diner. Michael handed a gun to Kyle, and another to Percy, who seemed depressed to be holding another gun. Like a true Marine, though, he unloaded the magazine and began to prepare. Jeep came up next, looking eager. Bob stepped forward. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Dad," Jeep said. "I can handle it."

Bob rolled his eyes and looked at Michael. "He's just a kid—"

"I said I can handle it!"

Michael frowned, studying Jeep. "He can handle it. He doesn't have a choice."

He took out two wicked-looking guns for himself, tucking in pistols and ammo into the confines of his jacket and throwing shotgun shells and magazines to the others. "If you want to live, then you'll do exactly as I say." He slammed the trunk closed and approached Charlie, who looked out of place amongst the armed men. The Brit and Jeep stepped closer protectively.

Michael handed a handgun to her. "When you fire, you keep your thumb off the slide. Don't hesitate. Don't do anything brave. There's no safety."

I could tell Michael cared for her. His body language screamed protection. But why, I had no clue. He didn't even know her. Charlie bit her lip and took the gun, holding it awkwardly. Michael gave her a lingering glance, and then walked towards the diner.

Only to be blocked by the hobo and the Englishman.

"You've been awfully mysterious with us," the Brit said. "After all this is over, you have some explaining to do. Don't think I'll forget."

Michael nodded absently. "How many are in the diner?"

The foreigner blinked, and I thought he was going to cook the bastard like he did with Gladys. The hobo rested a reassuring hand on his wrist. "Four. One is severely injured. I trust you'll help?"

Michael locked onto the man. "I already am."

I flanked him as he walked for the doors, the Englishman and the homeless man at his side. Michael frowned, looking at us, and then he froze. Something like understanding dawned on his features, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. "Thank you, my friends, for _your_ help."

With that horribly cryptic comment, he walked inside.

"Zeus' thunderbolts, can he get anymore freaking annoying after that?"

The hobo glared at me. "He's not the only one."

"What, annoying?"

"Yes. But you also need explaining to do." He stared pointedly at the pen in my hand. Great. I was hoping Bob would be a mortal gifted with seeing through the Mist, rare as it may be, but it seems everyone could see the magical sword. I self-consciously stuck it in my pocket. "Maybe. But the man behind you isn't exactly innocent, is he?"

The Brit shrugged. "Everyone has their secrets."

"But not everyone has a wooden stick that can shoot fire from its tip."

"Enough." The hobo barked. "We'll all explain later on. Let's start with names. I'm Donovan, and this is Harry. You are?"

I stared at his hand, deciding if I should shake it. The guy was being awfully nosy. "Percy, Percy Jackson."

Harry made a face. "Percy? That can be confusing. Mind if I call you Jackson?"

"I do, actually." I was proud of my name, and I wasn't about to be sidelined by a cook, no matter how chill he might be.

"Cool it. Percy it is, then. What's your girlfriend's name? The one who tackled Gladys from across the fucking diner."

I smirked. "First of all, she's not my girlfriend. Second of all, that's her personal business, and clearly not yours. So shoo."

Donovan showed his teeth. "Funny, because that's not what you told the cook. 'My girlfriend and I were heading east when our car broke down', wasn't it?"

Crap. I slipped. I swallowed, trying not to show my embarrassment, but Harry obviously noticed. He smiled and winked. "Secrets, eh Jackson?"

"Touché." _Cheeky bastard, as the Brits say._

We entered the diner as the sun winked out of the horizon, and night settled over the valley.

**AN: Thanks for reading. Reviews would be appreciated *hint wink nudge***


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